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This time, a mild-faced young man in his middle twenties appeared. “University of California in Los Angeles. Personnel Office. May I serve you?”

“This is Dr. Dave Turnbull, in New York. I understand that Scholar Duckworth is on leave. I’d like his present address.”

The young man looked politely firm. “I’m sorry, doctor; we can not give out that information.”

“Oh, yap! Look here; I know where he is; just give me–” He stopped. “Never mind. Let me talk to Thornwald.”

Thornwald was easier to deal with, since he knew both Duckworth and Turnbull. Turnbull showed him Duckworth’s letter on the screen. “I know he’s on Mendez; I just don’t want to have to look all over the planet for him.”

“I know, Dave. I’m sure it’s all right. The address is Landing City, Hotel Byron, Mendez.”

“Thanks, Thorn; I’ll do you a favor some day.”

“Sure. See you.”

Turnbull cut off, dialed Interstellar Communications, sent his message, and relaxed. He was ready to make a night of it. He was going to make his first night back on Earth a night to remember.

He did.

* * * * *

The next morning, he was feeling almost flighty. He buzzed and flitted around his apartment as though he’d hit a high point on a manic cycle, happily burbling utter nonsense in the form of a perfectly ridiculous popular song.

My dear, the merest touch of you
Has opened up my eyes;
And if I get too much of you,
You really paralyze!
Donna, Donna, bella Donna,
Clad in crimson bright,
Though I’m near you, I don’t wanna
See the falling shades of night!

Even when the phone chimed in its urgent message, it didn’t disturb his frothy mood. But three minutes later he had dropped down to earth with a heavy clunk.

His message to Mendez had not been delivered. There was not now, and never had been a Scholar James Duckworth registered at the Hotel Byron in Landing City. Neither was his name on the incoming passenger lists at the spaceport at Landing City.

He forced himself to forget about it; he had a date with Dee again that night, and he was not going to let something silly like this bother him. But bother him it did. Unlike the night before, the date was an utter fiasco, a complete flop. Dee sensed his mood, misinterpreted it, complained of a headache, and went home early. Turnbull slept badly that night.

Next morning, he had an appointment with one of the executives of U.C.L.I.–University of Columbia in Long Island–and, on the way back he stopped at the spaceport to see what he could find out. But all he got was purely negative information.

On his way back to Manhattan, he sat in the autocab and fumed.

When he reached home, he stalked around the apartment for an hour, smoking half a dozen cigarettes, chain fashion, and polishing off three glasses of Bristol Cream without even tasting it.

Dave Turnbull, like any really top-flight investigator, had developed intuitive thinking to a fine art. Ever since the Lancaster Method had shown the natural laws applying to intuitive reasoning, no scientist worthy of the name failed to apply it consistently in making his investigations. Only when exact measurement became both possible and necessary was there any need to apply logic to a given problem.

A logician adds two and two and gets four; an intuitionist multiplies them and gets the same answer. But a logician, faced with three twos, gets six–an intuitionist gets eight. Intuition will get higher orders of answers from a given set of facts than logic will.

Turnbull applied intuition to the facts he knew and came up with an answer. Then he phoned the New York Public Library, had his phone connected with the stacks, and spent an hour checking for data that would either prove or disprove his theory. He found plenty of the former and none of the latter.